


Cold and Broken Hallelujah

by Woland



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Aziraphale, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evil Gabriel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, evil archangels, mind-controlled Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-05-20 06:17:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19371112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woland/pseuds/Woland
Summary: They had three years of peaceful, perfect life.  Together, just the two of them.They should have known it wouldn't last.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first foray into the Good Omens fandom. Please don't judge too harshly.

They let their guard down. 

 

Three years had passed since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, the Apocalypse _they_ helped prevent.  Three years since their narrow escape from the clutches of Heaven and Hell, avoiding torturous deaths at the hands of their respective employers thanks to one of Agnes Nutter’s eerily accurate prophecies. 

And over those three years, he and Aziraphale managed to grow much closer to each other than in all the millennia that came before them.  The stress of nearly losing one another in the end-of-the-world maelstrom couldn’t help but lead to certain revelations, and for Crowley, at least, it was the realization that living in a world without his angel was no living at all, that an eternity spent in the sulfur pits of Hell was preferable to spending even a day on Earth with the knowledge that he would never see Aziraphale again.

 

He loved his angel.  Loved him with every cursed, miserable particle of his being.  And he was done trying to deny that to either the angel or himself.

 

So he told him.  That same day after the Ritz, as they strolled side by side down their favorite alley along the pond in St James’s Park.

 

To his enormous surprise (and relief), the angel didn’t reject him, didn’t shoot him down with a politely dismissive, “you’re a demon, Crowley, you can’t _possibly_ know what love is.”  Instead, Aziraphale turned toward him, those beautiful blue eyes swimming with tears, and told him in a trembling, quiet voice that he felt the same, _had_ felt the same for centuries, in fact, and that he was sorry, so, _so_ sorry for not saying anything sooner, for being a coward, for pushing Crowley away with such cruel, needless words, for…

 

Crowley didn’t let him finish.  Surged forward, hands grasping the angel’s tear-stained cheeks with all the roughness, all the desperation of a drowning man.  And he kissed him.

 

And almost lost what little was left of his hold on reality when he felt the angel kissing him back.

 

That day whatever barriers that were left between them had shattered and crumbled away into nothingness.  They became more than an angel and a demon, more than reluctant colleagues, more than unlikely friends.  They became one.

 

They left London.  Moved into a small cottage on the outskirts of Tadfield; a cozy turn-of-the-century place with room enough to house all of Aziraphale’s books and a quaint little garden outside for Crowley to terrify into a verdant paradise.

 

It was just the two of them.  It was peaceful.  It was quiet.  It was perfect.

 

They should have known it wouldn’t last.  _Crowley_ should have known.  Should’ve been prepared for it.  Should’ve protected their little newfound paradise somehow.

 

He failed.

 

***

 

It’s late in the evening when it happens. They are in the sitting room, snuggled together on the dark leather couch, Aziraphale dozing on Crowley’s shoulder, a book he’s been reading lying forgotten on his lap.  Crowley, with his arm draped around the angel’s shoulders, is fighting the pull of sleep, wanting to savor the familiar warm comfort of his lover’s relaxed, sleep-heavy weight against his side.   It’s a near-impossible task, his eyes sliding closed on their own accord even as he struggles to force them open again.  The battle is useless, he knows – another moment, and he will succumb same as his mate.  Yet, still, he resists.

 

It is the only reason why he gets to be awake to witness the exact moment when their idyllic existence comes to an end.

 

There’s a flash of light – blinding and inexplicably painful and sudden.  Too sudden – a mere pinprick of warning, a chill across his skin is all the warning he gets. 

And then… nothing.

 

***

He wakes abruptly – a sharp lurch of one fighting his way to the surface, sputtering and gasping as he comes up for air.

Instinctively, he jerks forward and gasps again, in pain this time, as red-hot fire lances through his wrists.  His eyes fly open, gaze snapping to the side, to where his right hand lays flat against the wall, pinned there by a golden chain that sends spikes of agony through his wrist every time he so much as shifts.  A quick glance at his left wrist reveals the same.  He’s stuck, shackled against his own living room wall with a pair of holy chains, his arms spread out to the sides in some twisted parody of the crucifixion of Christ.  (And, oh, when he gets out of this, he’s gonna rip whatever sick angel that’s responsible for this to shreds; pluck the little bastard’s feathers right off.)

 

Speaking of angels….

 

He looks out into the room, frantic gaze sweeping across the night-darkened space, and feels his heart stutter in worry as he spots his angel’s crumpled form on the floor beside the couch, dwarfed by three archangels that stand in a half-circle around him. Gabriel, Sandalphone and Uriel.  The three that were present at that mockery of a trial that Crowley got to live through as Aziraphale.  The three that wanted Aziraphale dead.

 

 Aziraphale’s face is turned away from him, and all Crowley can see is a tangled mass of blond locks.  The angel isn’t moving.

 

_Unconscious_ , Crowley thinks.  Then begs, _please, please, please, dear G… S… somebody, let him be unconscious._

“Do you think it worked?” Sandalphon nods disdainfully at the motionless figure.

 

Beside him Gabriel shrugs, unconcerned.  “Only one way to find out,” he says, motioning to the third archangel, Uriel.  “Wake him up.” 

 

 Uriel inclines his head obediently, places the tip of a glowing staff against Aziraphale’s temple, and steps back instantly as Aziraphale’s whole body shudders violently in response.

 

Crowley jerks forward at the display, hissing when the chains remind him viciously of his predicament; snarls in protest.  Across the room Gabriel turns his head toward him, an unkind, predatory smirk twisting his lips.

 

“Awake, I see,” he acknowledges in a near-purr of satisfaction.  “Just in time, too.” 

 

There’s an undertone of menace in Gabriel’s words.  Crowley ignores it.  Growls out, teeth bared, “What did you do to him?”

 

Gabriel cocks his head to the side, surveying him like a bug on display.  Remarks, amused, “I would worry more about your own fate, if I were you.”  

And then he turns back to where Aziraphale is slowly pulling himself up off the floor, blinking dazedly at his surroundings.

 

“Principality Aziraphale,” he drawls out, “nice of you to join us.”

 

“Archangel.” The acknowledgment is accompanied by a submissive bow.

 

“Do you know this demon, Principality?”

 

Slowly, the angel follows the direction of Gabriel’s outstretched hand, his gaze sliding carefully up Crowley’s chained form, and Crowley feels a gaping ice-cold chasm open up within his chest at the blank, indifferent look in the normally warm, sparkling blue eyes.

 

“I do not.”

 

Gabriel’s lips twitch in triumph.  “This demon, _Crawly_ , tried to tempt you, Principality,” he provides, “tried to make you Fall.  Oh, but do not worry,” he adds, placing a mockingly reassuring hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder when the angel’s eyes widen in alarm at his words, “we managed to contain him before he could do any real damage.” 

 

Gabriel’s gaze shifts in Crowley’s direction once again, and, oh, Crowley has never hated anyone more than he hates the archangel at this moment.  Would give his right arm to be able to wipe that gloating smirk off the bastard’s face.

 

“It’s up to you now, Principality.” Gabriel’s hand squeezes Aziraphale’s shoulder, his cold, cold eyes still trained on Crowley’s.  “You know what you have to do.”

 

A flaming sword materializes in the angel’s hand, and he grips the handle tightly, a look of determination sharpening his features as he takes a calm, steady step forward.

 

“I do.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

“Angel,” he pleads, despair making his voice crack as he watches his beloved advance ruthlessly toward him, not a trace of recognition in the blank, arctic-cold stare.  “It’s me, angel.  Snap out of it, Zira, please!”

 

It’s not the dying itself that scares him. No. A well-aimed hit with a sword like that and his death will be instantaneous almost – a few brief moments at most of physical pain.  Nothing, compared to the eternal torture Hell could subject him to.

 

But Zira… The angel has never killed before.  Balked at the mere thought of hurting someone. 

This? Would absolutely destroy him.  He can’t… he can’t let that happen.

 

“Please…”  He looks past Aziraphale now to where Gabriel stands, watching the angel’s murderous progress with an expression of a hungry hyena, lips curled in anticipation of a nice juicy meal.  “Stop this.  You _have_ to stop this.  If you want to kill me, then kill me.  But, please, don’t… don’t _do_ this to him.  Please!”

 

The archangel’s eyes settle slowly, reluctantly almost on Crowley’s face, and Crowley could swear there’s a spark of ravenous, blood-bright red in the purple irises.   And Crowley knows, even before the archangel opens his mouth, what his answer is going to be.

 

“And why would I do that?” he asks, like he finds the very notion to be the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.  Smirks, turning to his two companions as if inviting them to chime in, and the two remaining archangels oblige with obnoxiously loud chuckles of amusement.

 

“He’s an angel,” Crowley tries again, viciously stomping down on a flare of anger he feels toward these supposed heavenly beings.  Because anger won’t help him right now.  He needs to get through to these bastards.  Needs to make them understand!  “He’s one of you!”

 

“He is NOT one of us!” Gabriel roars, and Aziraphale freezes in his steps as though struck motionless by the palpable, all-encompassing fury that ripples through the air with the archangel’s words.  “He’s a disgrace to our kind!”

 

Crowley bites his lip on a sharp retort, slides his gaze to where Aziraphale stands blank-faced and unblinking, suspended mid-movement by the force of Gabriel’s anger.  Like a marionette in a puppet master’s hands, he thinks.  The comparison makes him sick.

 

The archangels won’t help him, he knows.  Can see it in the merciless, predatory expressions with which they survey the scene before them. 

But he’s not ready to give up.  Not yet.  He tries another tactic instead, no matter how much the very idea pains him.  Because desperate times call for desperate measures.  And he is.  Desperate enough.

 

“Can you… can you keep him from remembering, at least,” he asks, fighting to keep his voice steady.  Because if it would spare his angel the torment of living with the knowledge of what he’s done, then…  then it would be worth it.

 

Gabriel stares at him silently from across the room for what feels like an eternity, purple eyes narrowed in contemplation.  Walks leisurely forward to stand before Crowley.  Reaches out to grab Crowley by the chin, his fingernails digging sharply into the skin.

 

“What makes you think I’d want to do _that_ , demon?” He tilts his head slightly, searches for something in Crowley’s desperate gaze.  “You think…,” he starts, then chokes on a bark of laughter.  “You _honestly_ believe that I would want to spare him?”  He releases Crowley’s chin with a violent jerk. Stabs a disdainful thumb in Aziraphale’s direction.  “That… that… _abomination_?”

 

He throws his head back.  Laughs, harsh and loud.  Then the laughter cuts out abruptly and he leans into Crowley’s space again.  “Make no mistake, demon,” he hisses, words dripping with venom, “the spell your pudgy little boyfriend is under _will_ be broken once he does what he’s supposed to do.  And your _angel_ will remember _Every. Excruciating. Moment_ of it.  And I…”  He pulls back once more, a smile of ugly satisfaction playing on his lips.  “I will enjoy every second of his torment.”

 

Gabriel steps away at that, walks back to stand in his spot behind Aziraphale, snapping his fingers lazily in the air to release the angel from his suspended state.  And Aziraphale lurches forward, the flaming sword rising to aim with deadly precision at Crowley’s chest.

 

One step, two.  And Aziraphale stands before him, two sharp icicles staring indifferently back at him from an achingly familiar, beloved face.  The tip of the sword presses implacably against Crowley’s chest – scaldingly-hot and ice-cold at the same time.

 

It’s over.  And Crowley closes his eyes briefly – a futile attempt to force back a bitter swell of tears that threaten to spill forth. 

He won’t let them fall.  Won’t give Gabriel the satisfaction of seeing him break.  No matter that on the inside his heart already feels like it’s been ripped to shreds, shattered like a pane of glass under a careless blow of a hammer to leave behind a quivering bloody mess.

 

No.  He won’t cry.  But he knows what he has to do.  The only thing he _can_ still do for his angel.  The only thing he’s still capable of giving him.

 

He just hopes (with all the pieces of his broken, bleeding heart) that it will be enough.

 

He opens his eyes again, meeting his angel’s apathetic stare.  Licks his too dry lips in preparation.  And Aziraphale shifts forward one final time, his two-handed grip on the sword plunging the weapon deep into Crowley’s chest. 

 

Crowley gasps at the vicious explosion of pain, a wave of blinding white momentarily rolling over his senses, overwhelming them.  It burns.  _Dear G…S…someone, it burns._   And he feels oddly, frighteningly cold.  So very, very cold.  His breath stuttering, freezing in his lungs, as the white begins to thicken and darken around him.

 

He fights against it, stubbornly.  Hangs on to consciousness, desperately clawing his way back to the surface.  Hangs on even as his vision begins to dim, blackness encroaching on all sides.

 

He hangs on long enough to see a ripple of change flicker across Aziraphale’s expression.  To see him falter and blink, slowly, dazedly, as though coming out of a deep trance.  To see his eyes widen in obvious distress as his gaze falls on the weapon sticking out of Crowley’s chest, on his hands still wrapped tightly around its handle.

 

And when those eyes – horrified and tear-filled, but once again so familiar, so dear, so _warm_ – rise to meet Crowley’s, the demon forces his numb lips to smile, forces his leaden tongue to move.

 

“Not your…. not your f-fault, angel,” he exhales, blood spilling past his lips alongside the words.  “I f… forgive you.”

 

He doesn’t see anything else. 

 

And when his head falls forward, too heavy for him to hold up any longer, his forehead thumping into Aziraphale’s shoulder, he doesn’t feel that either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably apologize for this chapter, but... *shrugs*


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

“Crowley?” The name is a hesitant, pleading whisper that catches somewhere in the middle as it slips past his lips. 

 

“Crowley!” The second call of his lover’s name rips from his throat in a harsh, broken sob, steeped in denial.

 

A hurried snap of his fingers, and the holy bindings pinning Crowley to the wall fall away, leaving behind a mess of burned, bloodied skin.  The demon drops, limp and boneless, into Aziraphale’s trembling, waiting arms; the hilt of the sword that still protrudes grotesquely from Crowley’s chest pressing uncomfortably against Aziraphale’s ribs.  

The angel yanks the sword out, unthinking.  Tosses it away as if the very touch of it burns.

 

Crowley doesn’t react.  Doesn’t so much as twitch in response.  Only his blood begins to gush faster, unimpeded, from the gaping wound.

 

“No,” Aziraphale murmurs – a futile moan of protestation against the merciless truth of reality, “no, no, no….”

 

And, suddenly, his legs no longer seem to have what it takes to hold up his earthly corporation, and so he sinks heavily to the floor, his precious burden cradled protectively in his arms.

 

He tries, oh, God Almighty does he try.  Presses his hand against the gushing hole in Crowley chest, trying his best to ignore the blood that coats his fingers, seeming to seep under his very skin, branding him like the murderer that he is.  And he pours all of his healing energy into it, channels every particle of his angelic being into one single mission – heal, heal, _heal_.  And he prays, and he prays, and he prays.

 

“You don’t… _really_ think it’s going to work, do you.”

 

He doesn’t turn around at the sound of a familiar mocking voice.  He doesn’t need to.  He knows what he’ll see if he does: the looks of glee, the smiles of depraved pleasure.  He remembers them.  Remembers them all too well.

 

“You’re almost as ridiculous as that demon of yours.”

 

He hears footsteps behind him, measured, deliberate, slow – a predator circling its prey, moving in closer and closer with every pass.

 

“Do you know that this pathetic creature pleaded with us to spare you?  Begged me to keep you ignorant of what you’ve done?”

 

Gabriel laughs behind him, sharp and grating, even as Aziraphale hunches in on himself, crushed by the weight of the damning words.  His fingers tremble splayed out against the awful wound, his focus slipping.  He flicks his gaze up to his beloved’s face – ghostly pale now, its features hopelessly slack.  Blurred for him by the ever-thickening veil of tears that fogs his vision.

 

“Why would you do this?” he whispers brokenly, pulling his hand away from the wound to brush a blood-covered finger against Crowley’s cheek. Flinches, his lips trembling, as he stares at the smudge of crimson his gentle touch left behind – so vivid, so nauseatingly stark against the near-translucent skin.  “Why would you–?”

 

Another sob rips from his throat, cutting off the rest of the words, and he squeezes his eyes shut, tugging his lover’s too, too still form tighter against his chest.

 

He knows why.  Of course, he knows.  Because it’s Crowley.  The demon who burned his feet on consecrated ground to rescue him.  The demon who defied Heaven and Hell time and time again for his sake.  The demon who… who loved him.  Enough to forgive him, enough to let him go.

 

“It’s quite amusing, really.”

 

Gabriel’s voice slithers once more into his grief-clouded consciousness, and he feels something inside him stir and shudder in response.  Something dark and ugly and terrifying – a dangerous savage beast, awoken after a millennia-long sleep.

 

“Watching you skewer the serpent was entertaining enough, but watching you torment yourself over it now is just… well, it’s just so _delicious_!”

 

There’s a loud, obnoxious cackle above his ear, a horrifyingly tasteless expression of perverted pleasure at the expense of his grief. 

The beast inside him roars in agony, slashes wildly at the chains of restraint holding it hostage within the shattered confines of his bleeding soul. He moans in anguished pain, arms and wings wrapping tighter around Crowley in a futile attempt to shield them both from the waves of twisted, noxious glee that permeate the room, poisoning its very air. Tries his best to ignore the archangel, to tune out the cruel words, his whole body trembling with the effort of reigning in the dark tempest of grief, rage and despair that brews inside him.

 

It’s of no use.

 

The metaphorical chains snap – the sound so loud in his ears, he’s sure everyone around him can hear it – and the beast breaks free in a powerful, blinding explosion of Light that bursts forth from him in every direction, furious, scorching, decimating.  A flashover of smiting angelic vengeance.

 

He thinks he hears screaming, loud wails of pure agony. Gabriel’s, the other archangels’, perhaps even his own….  But it’s all lost, swallowed up in the searing maelstrom of Light, and the angel sways and cries at the epicenter of it, white wings wrapped protectively around a lifeless form that no longer requires his protection, shielding Crowley as Crowley had always shielded him, while the world around him burns, and burns, and burns.

 

And then it’s over, and the Light goes out like a candle snuffed out by an abrupt gust of wind.

 

Aziraphale slumps, drained, his cheeks wet, his throat raw from screaming he doesn’t remember having done.  He isn’t aware of the sudden absence of their tormentors, of the scorched emptiness of the room.  Nothing exists for him anymore but Crowley, pale and lifeless in his arms. Dead.

 

Three years.  Three years is all he’s been given to experience the true joy of living he hadn’t known in all of the millennia that came before it.  The joy he’d been denying himself and Crowley all that time.  Because he was a coward! A bloody coward who foolishly believed that what he was always taught was true; that Heaven was always right, as was the Great Plan they blindly followed; that demons were all inherently evil, soulless creatures, incapable of compassion, of empathy, of love…

 

He knew… in his heart of hearts he’d always known… that Crowley was an exception.  No soulless creature would challenge so bluntly the Great Plan, appalled by the idea of wiping out thousands upon thousands of the human race, drowning everyone, including the…

 

_“Not the kids. You can’t kill kids!!!”_

Wouldn’t look so devastated, so _sickened_ by the sight of that young carpenter from Galilee getting nailed to the cross for nothing more than trying to get humans to love one another.

 

Wouldn’t risk his own life over and over to save Aziraphale’s.

 

Wouldn’t… wouldn’t have that look in his eyes whenever he glanced toward Aziraphale, the look of love – pure, unadulterated, beautiful _love_.  The kind Aziraphale was always told demons weren’t capable of.  And yet Aziraphale felt it from Crowley. In abundance.

 

And he pushed it away.  Pushed _Crowley_ away.  Despite the fact that every fiber of his being longed to be closer. Warded himself away from both Crowley and his love because he was too afraid of what Heaven would do if they ever found out.  Cowardly protecting himself from what he was sure would be a wrathful reprimand. 

 

And he hurt Crowley in the process.

 

He wasn’t blind. He saw the brutal impact his rejections had on his then friend.

 

_“Friends? We’re not friends. We’re an_ angel _and a_ demon. _We have nothing in common. I don’t even_ like _you!”_

Saw every poorly hidden flinch, every dejected droop of the thin shoulders, every pained twist of the lips that didn’t quite manage to form a smile, every note of anguish in the tired voice disguised by the ever-crumbling mask of sarcasm.

He saw.  And he hated himself for every moment of pain he had inflicted so cruelly on the demon.  Vowed to himself, once he finally worked up the courage to do what he should have done thousands of years ago, that he would spend the next millennia making it up to him.

 

He got three years...

 

His hand trembles as he cups the back Crowley’s head.  Gently, reverently lifts it up to press an equally trembling kiss against the sweat-stained temple.  A benediction, a plea for forgiveness, a final goodbye.

 

“I’m sorry, my love,” he chokes out, taking a moment to bury his tear-stained face in the matted auburn hair, to breathe in Crowley’s scent for one last time.  “I am so, so sorry…”

 

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do next. Doesn’t know if there’s anything left for him _to_ do. His one true constant, his anchor in this vast, tumultuous universe, the heart and soul of his existence is gone, and there’s nothing tethering him to this earthly world.  Nothing left for him in Heaven either. Not anymore. Not after this.

 

Perhaps it would have been better if he Fell.

 

“Aziraphale.” The voice that calls his name is achingly familiar and one he hasn’t heard in over 6,000 years.  One he yearned to talk to all those years he’s been on Earth.  One he begged would answer him when… _before_ it was too late. 

One he no longer wishes to hear.

 

“Aziraphale,” She repeats, softer this time, and he can feel Her heavenly light even through his tightly squeezed eyelids, “angel of the Eastern Gate.”

 

Slowly he raises his head, squints toward Her with a tired glare.  “Why are You here?”

 

She smiles at him – a soft crinkle in the otherwise flawless glowing skin.  “It isn’t often one of my children erases three archangels from existence,” She says, and his eyes widen momentarily in stunned disbelief.

 

He glances behind him, as if to make sure, even though he knows She wouldn’t lie to him.  Not about something like this. 

Turns back to her, head raised in defiance.

 

“You’re here to cast me out then?” he challenges. Because he’s ready for this. Willing even. Would gladly embrace the pain that comes with the Fall with both arms if it would drown out even a little bit of the agony that’s tearing apart his soul.

 

She raises an eyebrow at that.  “No,” She denies, sounding surprised.

 

He shakes his head.  Raises his hand to wipe away another errant tear that trails down his cheek.  “I believed in You,” he murmurs dully.  “I trusted in Your Plan, in the goodness of it, even when others… when _he…_ ” He glances briefly down at Crowley, tucked safely against his chest. Blinks away another tear.  “…when he questioned the _goodness_ of destroying thousands of innocent souls.”  Admits in a quieter voice, “Even when I myself questioned it.” 

 

He looks toward Her again, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. He knows he’s pushing it.  Knows he shouldn’t speak like this to Her. And some part of him wonders with morbid glee whether She might just smite him on the spot instead if he pushes hard enough. He finds himself craving the instant relief that would bring.

 

“I believed in Your Love and Your Mercy.  But I was a fool.” His chin wobbles ever so slightly, words sticking in his tear-swollen throat. “You’re not merciful… at all.  You’re cruel.  You watch humans commit atrocities against one another, and You do nothing.  You encourage your archangels to be callous and vengeful, allow them to go about plotting the destruction of an entire human species just for the sake of settling an old score. And You do nothing! And the one archangel who loved Your creations, the one archangel who _cared_ … You cast him out and tossed him into a pit of boiling sulfur for nothing more than questioning the righteousness of Your actions.”

 

He sucks in a breath, arms tightening impossibly around Crowley’s still form, and words continue to pour out of him – an unstoppable torrent of rage and grief.

 

“And when he came to Earth, a demon, and You saw that he still cared despite all odds, that he still had the capacity to _love_ , which You told us none of the demons do, You _abandoned_ him!  You made him think he wasn’t worthy of Your love.”

 

_“I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. … Unforgivable, that’s what I am…”_

 

“You let Your other children torture him and… and kill him and… and I... I…”

 

“I won’t make you Fall, Aziraphale.” Her calm, soothing voice interrupts the sob-broken ramble of his words. 

 

She’s standing right before him now, Her warm, motherly gaze soft and inexplicably, apologetically sad.  She seems tired somehow, he thinks absurdly as he watches Her shift Her attention to Crowley, reach a delicate glowing hand toward him.

 

He tenses despite himself, moving to pull Crowley out of harm’s way, but Her touch doesn’t burn the demon, doesn’t engulf him in smiting, punishing Light.  She merely smoothes Her fingers over the unruly flame-red locks, slowly and lovingly as a mother would when she soothes her child to sleep for the night.  Smiles down at him with that same gentle, wistful smile.

 

“I never meant for him to Fall either,” She confides, Her smile growing brittle as She rests her hand against Crowley’s cheek.  “It was a different time back then.  I was… _young_. I thought I knew everything, had it all figured out, everything set in motion as it was to be.”

 

Absently, She runs her thumb along the smear of blood on Crowley’s cheek, the stain disappearing underneath her touch.

 

“And this… bright, bright child of mine, he challenged me, asked me questions no one’s ever asked before, questions I realized I wasn’t ready to answer. And it… embarrassed me, made me angry.”

 

Her hand drops back down to Her side, softly shimmering blue eyes rising to meet Aziraphale’s, and he’s surprised to see a hint of tears there, a pained flash of remorse.

 

“I reacted poorly,” She admits, regret creasing Her features, making Her appear older, careworn.  “And it took me a little while to realize that.”

 

“A few millennia?” he quips, but there’s no bite to his words, just an overwhelming weariness. Because none of this matters anymore, does it. Because Crowley’s still dead.

 

Her lips twitch again, sorrowful.  “Something like that.”

 

Aziraphale nods, closing his eyes against that unbearable softness he sees in Hers, a softness that looks and feels too much like pity. Swallows thickly against an ever-present bitter swell of tears.  “Why tell me all this now?” he wonders, voice empty. _“Where were You when I… when he… when we both needed you,”_ he thinks, bitter.  “What is the point?”

 

Warm fingers brush the side of his face, the touch – a soothing balm against his ravaged nerves, and he jolts, his eyes flying open in surprise as he feels that divine warmth flood into him, melting away all traces of anger and despair and filling those spaces with reassurance and hope.

 

“I can’t change the mistakes of the past, Aziraphale,” She acknowledges in a regretful murmur, her fingers still lingering against his skin as flecks of golden light fall from Her hair, dancing in a shimmering mesmerizing veil in the air around Her.  “But I _can_ make a clean slate for the future.”

 

She leans down a bit to Crowley’s level, brings her lips to the demon’s forehead, pressing a light kiss against the cold, pale skin.  Gentle and chaste like the blessing of a mother’s love.

 

She pulls away, the skin around Her eyes crinkling with contentment as She watches a speckle of golden light dance on the surface of the demon’s skin where Her lips have touched him a moment ago.  The light lingers for another heartbeat or two before it slowly begins to seep deeper into the skin until it disappears altogether.

 

She nods, pleased; turns Her gaze back to Aziraphale, who’s been following Her movements with bated breath and desperate timorous hope.

 

“Be well, my children,” She tells him, “be… Loved.” And then She’s gone – a blinding supernova that flashes instantly out of their plane of existence, leaving behind a halo of golden flecks that flutter about, shimmering, as their light, too, slowly fades away.

 

Aziraphale pays them no heed.  For in that moment, in that very moment, he feels a small shudder go through the lifeless form in his frantic embrace, and his breath hitches on a sob of gasp as he watches the deadly wound knit itself closed, the gaunt chest beginning to move, haltingly at first, but steadier and steadier with every subsequent breath.

 

“Crowley?” he calls, a pitifully hopeful squeak of a whisper. “Crowley?”  And nearly chokes in giddy, dizzying relief when the dark eyelashes flutter weakly in response, a thin sliver of yellow peaking out.

 

“Oh, Crowley, oh, my darling, oh, thank God!”

Crowley shifts slightly within his grasp, his hand rising feebly to touch the angel’s face, a barely audible moan of frustration slipping past his lips when his hand drops will-lessly back down before making contact.

 

Aziraphale catches it mid-fall, captures it gently in his own. Raises it to his lips to press a deep, reverent kiss into the trembling palm.

 

“I love you,” he murmurs, leaning in to lay more grateful, tearful kisses on the dear face. “I love you s..so much!”

 

His voice catches, unsteady, and he buries his face unashamedly in Crowley’s neck, his body shaking so hard, he barely registers the equally unsteady, clumsy brush of Crowley’s fingers against the back of his head as the demon tries to comfort him the best he can.

 

“S’okay now, angel,” he huffs out breathlessly above Aziraphale’s ear.  “S’a…all gonna be okay.”

 

He nods mutely against the side of the demon’s neck, feeling the reassuring hum of life underneath his skin.  _“Thank You!”_ he whispers fervently in his mind, hoping that She can hear him, hoping She knows, _sees_ how much it truly means.  

He lifts up his head once more, hungrily drinking in the sight of his beloved – still weak, still alarmingly pale, but alive, alive, _alive_!  Moves in to seal an embarrassingly wet, lingering kiss against his lips, his soul quivering with pure, unbridled joy when those lips move feebly in response.    

 

_“Thank You!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, there you have it. my first Good Omens fic, done. Now I'm off to tinker with the rest of my lonely WIPs :)
> 
> Feel free to come say hi to me on tumblr @somethingjustsouthofbrilliance


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